Trust
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark tries to fill in the gap, and the judge gets off with just a warning.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Author's note: This story continues on from _Death Wish_, and will make very little sense unless you have read what precedes it (heck, it might not make much sense even if you _have_ read what precedes it).

Wendy suggested the original plot bunny, and the follow-up plot bunny as well. Thank you, Wendy.

Many thanks to the betas, Cheri and Susan, without whom things would make even less sense.

Trust

By L. M. Lewis

It was nearly two in the morning before the last of the police vehicles left the property. The judge watched the final part of the process, Jake Randall's body being carried up from the beach and placed in the coroner's wagon.

After that, he'd gone back into the house, to the den, where McCormick was still asleep in the chair. "Hey, kiddo." He shook the younger man's shoulder gently. "You gonna sleep in here two nights in a row?"

Mark mumbled something, then opened his eyes and looked around in drowsy confusion. "Huh?"

"I said maybe you'd like to actually sleep in a bed for a change."

There was some blinking, not much action. Then, a moment later, "Oh . . . Jake." McCormick looked up at him, suddenly more awake. "Are they finished?"

Hardcastle nodded, "All done."

"Okay . . ." He rubbed his face and looked around blearily. "I'm going to bed then." There was still no motion to match the words.

The judge frowned. "Maybe the sofa'd be easier."

"No . . ." he was up on his feet now, looking dead weary but walking straight.

"You remember where the gatehouse is, don't ya?" Hardcastle asked, only half in jest. All he got was a backward wave of the hand from the other man as he slouched up the steps and out of the room.

No smart remark, but otherwise back to normal. Hardcastle kept his sigh of relief inaudible as he heard the front door open and close. Normal would be good for a change.

Later, when he thought back on it, he would realize that two a.m. that morning was the last time he heard McCormick utter Jake Randall's name.

00000

**One Month Later**

Emmett Philbock was a better arsonist than a getaway driver, and the outcome of the chase was a foregone conclusion. McCormick even seemed to be holding back, after their quarry took off down the unpaved road that went back from the warehouse he'd been intent on torching.

"Don't lose him," the judge warned.

"Don't worry," McCormick replied. "It's a dead end. I'm not eating this guy's dust for no reason."

And a moment later they saw the other car slew up in a shower of dirt and come to a stop only feet from the striped barrier that marked the edge of the embankment. McCormick stopped twenty feet back; the judge was already half up and out of the car aiming the gun.

But Philbock wasn't paying any attention to Hardcastle's shouted warning. He was out of _his_ car on the side away from them, and running along the barrier to even higher ground.

"Dammit," McCormick muttered. It was readily apparent that the man wasn't armed, just stubbornly evasive. There wasn't anywhere to go, but somebody was going to have to go after him.

"Well, he's a persistent little cuss," Hardcastle said. "Go get him."

McCormick grumbled, "We can't just wait until he gets tired, no--'Go get him.' I swear, I'm gonna punch his lights out if he so much as tries to kick me in the shins."

Mark climbed up the slope after the other man, a calculated pace so he would still have some breath left when he caught up. Hardcastle moved around into a back-up position. The idea was to bring enough coordinated force to bear that Philbock, a guy who would set fires even if _nobody_ paid him, would see the sense in surrendering without a fight.

Philbock's harsh breathing could be heard ahead of them; it might have been from panic, or maybe just the steady climb that had taken them up another twenty-five feet. McCormick paused a moment, giving the judge a chance to swing around and cut off the other avenue of escape, then he moved in slowly, talking all the while, a little too far off for Hardcastle to make out the words, but evidently something quietly persuasive.

Philbock was not persuaded. Hardcastle heard him shouting, "Stay the hell away from me," and he had a sudden notion that, armed or not, maybe this guy wouldn't be such an easy take down. He closed the distance between himself and McCormick, intending to pull the kid off this one.

He saw McCormick already easing back, as though he'd fathomed the judge's intentions, but Philbock was screaming now, almost incoherent, with a snatch of words that sounded like, "I'll die first!"

The judge saw McCormick freeze, except for one hand held out palm forward toward the other man. He still couldn't make out the kid's words, but Philbock was backing away slowly. Now Hardcastle heard a single word, "No!" shouted by Mark as the other man teetered for a moment and then dropped down out of sight.

McCormick lunged forward and landed, sprawled out with one hand clutching something. Hardcastle closed the remaining distance between them at a run and saw in horror that the embankment had become a cliff, with a lethal drop to a dry wash below.

Mark had the man by one wrist. Philbock was scrabbling up with the other, clawing at his rescuer and still screaming incoherently. His struggles, his weight, and the downward slope toward the cliff edge, were pulling McCormick inexorably forward.

Hardcastle reached past him, grabbing Philbock by what looked to be a sturdy collar, which did the double duty of increasing the upward force, and choking the living daylights out of the idiot. Once he'd stopped struggling, it was comparatively easy to pull him back up over the edge of the cliff.

"Okay . . . okay, I got him," Hardcastle was finally able to spare a few words. McCormick let loose his almost convulsive grip on the other man so the judge could apply the cuffs. It occurred to Hardcastle that the younger man had not been on the verge of letting go, even as he'd been slipping forward. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Mark had rolled onto his back, lying flat out and breathing heavily, cradling his right arm with his left.

"You okay?" the judge asked the kid, as he kept one hand firmly on the back of Philbock's neck.

"Ah . . . yeah," the answer was a little strained. "Just, um, my shoulder. Ah, _dammit_." He was clutching harder at his right arm.

Hardcastle frowned. "Can you move it?"

A quick negative shake.

The judge heard the far-off sound of approaching sirens, the long-overdue backup that he had called for back at the warehouse that Philbock had been trying to torch. _Good_, he thought, _I think we'll just sit here quietly until the cavalry finally arrives._

00000

Even though everyone from the first paramedic who'd laid eyes on him, through the nurse who'd taken his vital signs in the ER, had pronounced the shoulder dislocated, he was still sent for x-rays. This was preceded by a shot of morphine, and followed by the appearance of a young, enthusiastic doctor who introduced himself as Carl Frelling and asked if the shoulder had ever been 'out' before.

"No, and you're the fourth person who's asked me that question," McCormick replied. "The fifth if you include him," he ducked his chin in the direction of the judge, who was leaning up against the wall in the corner of the examining room.

Frelling shrugged, "Just being thorough. What about the scar?"

"Gunshot, 'bout five months ago."

Frelling's eyebrows went up a notch. "Hmm, might be part of the problem."

"It healed up fine," McCormick insisted.

"Well, _maybe_," Frelling looked cheerfully doubtful. "Anyway, long story short. Your shoulder's dislocated; the head of the humerus--the upper arm bone--got pulled out of the socket. Now it's sitting in front of it. The reason it hurts so much is your shoulder muscles are tightening up."

"Okay," Mark said wearily, "so you fix it how?"

"Pretty easy nowadays. Start an IV, give you some sedation, and pull on it again. When it's above the rim of the joint, it'll pop back into place."

"Good as new?"

"No, then you rest it for a few weeks," Frelling cautioned. "No moving it."

"No lawn mowing?" McCormick grinned, and cast a glance over his shoulder at the judge.

Frelling said, "No."

"Pool cleaning?" Mark inquired, also wishing to be thorough.

"One-handed, maybe," the doctor conceded.

Hardcastle smiled, "Only take you twice as long that way, hotshot." He'd moved up to the side of the gurney and had his hand on the kid's good shoulder. "When?" he asked the doctor.

"Right now. Give 'em a sec to start the IV."

"And when can I go home?" McCormick asked.

"Ten minutes to do it, maybe a half-hour, forty-five minutes, before you're back on your feet. We've got something new--midazolam--relaxes the muscles and _afterwards _you don't even remember having the procedure done."

Hardcastle felt the shoulder under his hand tense up. "What do you mean?" the kid asked nervously.

"It's called 'conscious sedation'. You're not all the way out, but you don't feel much and you don't remember it afterwards. It's very safe."

"Um . . ."

It was Hardcastle who asked the practical question, "Does it interact with any other drugs?"

The doctor looked down at the chart, then at McCormick, "But you're not on anything, are you?"

"Does it interact with something called scopolamine?" the judge continued.

"When?"

"'Bout a month ago," Mark said quietly.

"Recreationally?"

"No, _unintentionally_," McCormick answered sharply.

Frelling's eyebrows went up again. "You _have_ been busy . . . No, that's out of your system by now." He looked down at the chart again, then smiled at his patient. "I don't suppose you could try not to have any more misadventures while your shoulder is healing?"

The light touch wasn't working. Hardcastle could feel the resistance building. The next part didn't surprise him a bit.

"Why don't you just do it without the drug," McCormick said flatly.

Frelling looked taken off-guard. He said bluntly, "'Cause it'll hurt like hell and might not work . . . Look, I don't mow lawns; I write up charts. I'll pull, and your muscles will pull back harder. The shoulder won't go anywhere. Trust me, it's better all around with the sedative."

McCormick looked doubtful. "How long? I mean . . . how much will I not remember?"

"Just the part where I'm dragging on your shoulder until it pops back in," Frelling smiled reassuringly, "the part you don't want to remember, and maybe a few minutes after that."

McCormick looked up at the judge, still vastly unhappy.

"Just get it over with," Hardcastle patted his good shoulder. "Half-hour, you're outta here."

Mark nodded once. "Stay?" he asked.

The judge looked over at the doctor who said, "Sure, hell, I'll let you do the counter-traction if you want. You look stronger than my nurse."

He stayed. The IV was started. McCormick kept up a nervous patter with the nurse until the injection was given. After that he spoke only if spoken to, and even that was an increasingly blurry and disconnected mumble. To Hardcastle, it was disconcertingly reminiscent of a month earlier. He was almost glad when the procedure started and the mumbling became more distressed, though still very unfocused.

"He won't remember this," Frelling reminded him as he began a steady hard pull.

It was done in a few minutes, and the mumbling subsided completely. Hardcastle looked at the doctor questioningly.

"Once it's back in, and the pain's mostly gone, the sedation seems a lot stronger for a bit." Frelling smiled. "We strap it up, shoot another x-ray. He wakes up in a little while and, as soon as he's able to walk straight, he goes home." The doctor took one last look at the shoulder, and the monitor, and looked satisfied. "I'll start getting his papers together."

Hardcastle nodded, pulled a chair over and sat down to wait. He reached through the side rails of the gurney and found the kid's wrist, a slow strong regular pulse that matched the monitor over on the other side.

The judge let out a sigh and said, mostly to himself, "And you're not gonna do _that_ again, kiddo."

McCormick surprised him with a, "What?" mumbled without opening his eyes.

Hardcastle said, "Shh, nothing."

"Not do what?" he muttered with aggravating persistence, eyes still closed.

The judge frowned. "Not let some idiot pull you over a cliff, that's what."

McCormick's eyelids flickered. The bad arm tugged at the strap for a moment but gave up. Then he was grabbing with his good one. Hardcastle gave him a hand to hold onto. That seemed to work for a moment and he settled back down, but the grip remained and his face looked surprisingly troubled for someone only half-conscious.

"It's all right. The idiot is fine. You held onto him," the judge said reassuringly, looking out past the half-closed curtain into the hallway at the approaching nurse.

"No, I didn'. . ."

Hardcastle's eyes shot back. The kid was still half-out. "Yes," he replied firmly, "you _did_."

"I couldn't hol' on . . . hands didn' work right." The kid was flat out grimacing now.

Hardcastle sat back, letting loose of the kid's hand, feeling fairly troubled himself, like he'd stumbled into the wrong conversation. The nurse was back in the room. He let her have the left side of the bed, stationing himself back in the corner where he'd started. McCormick was increasingly restless, and when she put on the blood pressure cuff, he opened his eyes and looked around.

"How much longer?" he asked drowsily.

"All done, kiddo," the judge informed him.

"They did it _already_?" He looked bemused, and then said quietly, "Weird dream." He looked down at the strap that held his shoulder and wrist in place. "No driving," he added sadly, and then, "Can we go home?"

00000

If McCormick had seemed pensive that first day, the judge chalked it up to the sedative and the pain medicine. By the next day he seemed to be back to his usual annoying self, following Hardcastle down to the file cabinets to watch the official retirement of the Philbock file, but then not making himself even the slightest bit useful when the judge turned to straightening up. Instead he just sat there on the basement steps, looking bored.

After ten minutes of that, Hardcastle asked him testily, "How's the shoulder?"

McCormick gave it a moment's thought, shrugging experimentally, "Not too bad. Kinda stiff. Aches some," he replied.

"Good," the judge answered wearily, "then why don't you go clean the pool."

The kid appeared to think about it for all of five seconds then got up, without comment or protest, and left.

_Good, he'll go take a nap or something,_ Hardcastle went back to filing.

A half-hour later he emerged from the basement, thinking lunch. He looked out the back window and saw McCormick actually working on the pool using _both_ hands, the shoulder strap off and abandoned on one of the patio chairs.

_Dammit._ The judge went storming out. "What the hell do you think you're doing, McCormick?" he shouted.

The younger man looked genuinely surprised. "Cleaning the pool," he said defensively, "like you said." Then he looked at the abandoned strap, then back at an angry Hardcastle. "You didn't really expect me to do it one-handed, Judge? Seesh." He shook his head. "Anyway, it feels pretty good, a lot less stiff this way."

"Yeah," Hardcastle blustered, "until it pops out again. Listen, kiddo, you were kinda out of it yesterday, so I'll explain it to you one more time slowly. The strap stays on until the doc says it comes off. That's weeks, not _hours_."

McCormick looked at him sullenly and dropped the net by the side of the pool. "I really think I can drive."

"Not stick," the judge said emphatically.

McCormick walked over to the chair and looked down at the thing disgustedly. "Well, I need some help putting it on."

00000

The last time around, convalescing from a gunshot to the shoulder, McCormick had been tired, but not sullen. He'd spent most of his time tinkering on the Coyote, taking walks on the beach, and napping. This time, with only one usable hand, there was no tinkering. The judge hadn't seen the kid go down on the beach in the past month. On top of everything else, this new version included McCormick the insomniac.

It wasn't so much that he _couldn't_ sleep, Hardcastle thought. He'd fallen asleep in front of the TV the past few evenings. But then he'd resist suggestions that he go make use of his own bed, resisted them right through to the late-late show, and past the judge's endurance. Twice now he'd found him in the morning where he'd left him the night before. It couldn't have been _much_ sleep that he was getting, dozing off in a chair at the point of exhaustion.

The third day, when McCormick appeared bleary-eyed at the breakfast table, to poke left-handed at his food, disinterestedly, the judge made a pointed comment.

"I'm calling Charlie Friedman."

McCormick looked up sharply from his daze. "_Why_? What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing's the matter with _me_," Hardcastle said exasperatedly, "_I'm_ not the one mooning around here like my dog died."

"Well,_ I _sure as hell don't need to see him," McCormick protested. "It's just my damn shoulder."

"Yeah, so, if it's keeping you up nights, Charlie'll give you something. You can't expect it to heal up if you don't sleep."

McCormick started to say something else, appeared to think better of it, and then merely repeated himself stubbornly, "Well, I don't need to see _him_, just the orthopedic guy to see when I can get this damn thing off." He shrugged his right shoulder impatiently.

Hardcastle said nothing. He knew Charlie was an old enough doctor to include recalcitrance on his list of reasons to make a house call, and that McCormick was friends enough with him that he wouldn't refuse to see him if he came..

00000

It was on toward dinnertime when Charlie showed up on the doorstep, bag in hand and an inquiring expression. Hardcastle realized he'd been a little vague on the phone.

"He's around here somewhere," the judge said, ushering Friedman into the den. "Might take me a couple minutes to find him."

"Not flat on his back in bed, then?" Charlie said.

"God, no, _that _would be an improvement." Hardcastle shook his head. "He's hardly sleeping at all. Seems tired enough, just won't. Something's bothering him; I thought maybe it was the shoulder but he says no."

Charlie had opened his mouth to reply when they both heard the sound of the front door opening again. _Well, he's not avoiding it,_ Hardcastle thought, congratulating himself at the same time he felt his worry increasing.

"Hi, Doc," Mark's tone was friendly-cautious from the doorway. He slipped into the room as though he might not be welcome just yet, and suddenly the judge understood his quick arrival. _He figured the faster he got here, the less I'd have time to say._

"You want me to clear out?" Hardcastle asked Friedman casually.

"Up to him," Charlie pointed to Mark, who gave a non-committal half-shrug.

_Of course, if the kid sends me packing, he's flat-out admitting there's something wrong._

"Stay if you want," McCormick said quietly, looking like he hoped the judge wouldn't take him up on it. When Hardcastle didn't get up, Mark added, in a mutter, "It'll save you having to hear it all from him later on."

Dr. Friedman shook his head. "It doesn't work that way with me, Mark," he said mildly, "and you know it."

There was a pause. Then, "Sorry," Mark said apologetically, "I know. I've just been a little . . . _tense_."

The judge frowned, "I can go." He started to rise.

He was halfway to his feet when he heard Mark say, "Stay." Hardcastle froze, trying not to show his surprise on his face. Then he slowly sat back down.

Charlie said nothing for a moment, as if he was recalibrating as he considered the two men. Then he turned to Mark and asked, very neutrally, "You're having some trouble sleeping?"

"A little," McCormick admitted reluctantly. "It happens sometimes. I don't _need _anything for it." He looked peeved. "That's the last thing I want, more _drugs_." He shook his head.

Dr. Friedman nodded understandingly. "Well, they're not really the solution most of the time anyway. It would be better to figure out what's wrong and fix that. Is it your shoulder?"

"I don't think so," Mark replied. "It's annoying," then he smiled wanly, "but God knows I've learned to sleep through 'annoying'." Then there was a long silent pause as it gradually became apparent that no one was going to turn this into a conversation. Finally Mark looked down at the floor and half-voiced, "There is something _else_."

Friedman gave a little nod of encouragement and asked, "What's that?"

"You know," McCormick shifted in his chair uncomfortably, "you said, with large doses of that scopolamine crap, a person doesn't form any memories--none. And I didn't remember anything,--really--not a thing. It was a total blank."

Friedman nodded again.

"Except . . ." Then there was a long pause. Mark fidgeted with the strap over his right wrist.

"Except what?" Charlie prodded gently.

Mark cast a sideward glance at the judge, then turned back to Friedman. "A couple days ago I remembered something. It was right after they put my shoulder back in. They gave me some stuff then, too." He looked at Hardcastle, questioningly.

"Started with an 'M'," the judge said. "Mida--"

"Midazolam," Friedman finished. "New, short acting. Good for procedures. Makes you not remember the bad parts later on." He stopped and looked thoughtful.

McCormick was frowning. "So is there anything with that stuff that would make a person remember what happened another time, with the other drug?"

"What did you 'remember'?" Charlie asked carefully.

"I'm not sure now," Mark hedged. "It's kinda like a dream." He looked at the judge again, with more puzzlement than before. "It's dark. I'm at the back of the yard. He's there, saying something I don't understand."

"Jake?" Charlie asked.

McCormick nodded once, sharply. "And then I'm trying to warn him. I shout, but he's already falling. I try to grab for him but, my hands, nothing's working right." Mark looked down at his own hands with a look of frustration. "You know, like in a dream, when you can't move fast enough. And then he's gone. And I hear the judge. He sounds kinda angry, not _real_ angry, but like maybe I did something dangerous. That's it." Mark finished, still looking puzzled. "That's all I remember." Now he was facing Friedman, carefully avoiding Hardcastle.

"You know, Mark," Charlie appeared to be weighing his words carefully, "the human mind is an amazing thing and memory, it's what makes us human. It makes us what we are. Take it away and we're nothing. Take a little piece of it away, and the mind fights like crazy to fill in the gap."

Mark nodded. "But I couldn't, not at first."

"You couldn't because there weren't any memories made during that period, nothing to remember. The recording machine, however it may work, was turned off."

"Then what _am_ I remembering?"

Charlie smiled reassuringly. "I think you're doing the most normal thing in the world. Milt told me what happened a few days ago; you're taking a bit of that, together with what you heard about the night Jake died, and filling in the background with the usual, the things that you've experienced many times. The only question is, why is it bothering you so much? You _can't_ be blaming yourself for not being able to save that man. He _poisoned _you. And shouldn't it feel better to have the space filled in, no matter what the source?"

"It would have, maybe," Mark shifted his eyes back to the judge, briefly, looking a little guilty, "I don't know why it bothered me so much, but it _didn't_ jibe with what I'd been told happened. Actually, it all makes a lot more sense now, the way you explained it." He looked relieved. "And I do feel a lot better, Charlie, thank you."

Friedman smiled. "All my house calls should be this easy. I didn't even have to shake down my thermometer."

He was rising to go. The judge looked startled, and got to his feet clumsily a moment after the other two. He was still in the doorway of the den, by the time Mark had seen Friedman all the way to the door and was saying good-bye.

The sound of the door closing seemed to bring him back to himself a little. McCormick had shut it, still with the look of relief on his face. It was only when he turned back toward the judge and saw _his_ face, that the look froze a little.

_Leave it be. Just leave it be. You only wanted to protect him. Those aren't real memories he's having. Charlie said they weren't._

_You lied to him._

Hardcastle stepped back down into the den, the kid following him in wordlessly, looking less relieved by the second.

Finally Mark said, "Now what's the matter with _you_? Do we need to haul Charlie back in here?"

It was the kid's look of honest concern that undid him. The judge sat down heavily in the nearest seat. Mark took the one across, looking even more worried.

"Ah," he began uncertainly, even though he'd known where he would wind up, as soon as he had opened his mouth, "I think Charlie's probably right about all of that." He looked the kid straight in the eye, but then blinked and glanced away. "It's just that," now he hesitated. This was the hard part. "It doesn't necessarily have to be that what you're 'remembering' isn't true."

"But you said I was thirty feet away from the wall, from where Jake fell."

"I _said_ that."

There was a long silent pause.

"You _lied_?"

Hardcastle looked him in the eye again. He nodded. This time it was the kid who looked away.

"_Why_?"

"Because," the judge sighed, "It wasn't yours to worry about, but you were gonna make it yours. Just like with Weed Randall. _All_ yours, _no_ sharing." The judge shook his head. "Anyway, who says I'm not entitled to a lie now and then?" he added defensively.

"I do."

The judge looked surprised.

"You don't, at least not to me." Mark paused, then asked, "Have you ever lied to me before?"

Hardcastle thought about it and then shook his head again, "No, I don't think so."

"Good, I'd like to count on that." McCormick nodded to himself. Then he looked across at the judge with a small smile, "I'll let you off with a warning this time."

"What if there's a next time; what if it's for your own good?"

"Well," McCormick appeared to be giving this a moment's serious thought, "you're just gonna have to trust me on this, Judge," he said, with a logic uniquely his own, "you're not gonna do it again."


End file.
